Shame
by baboomstick
Summary: B is no stranger to shame. He’s been acquainted with it since the tender age of 6. But as he sets himself aflame, he knows that his shame is burning with him; in this fiery abyss, something as human as shame cannot follow.


**Last Scene, Act IV**

The gasoline burned his nostrils and made his eyes water, and even that made him smile. With his manic smile spreading across his face, the unhinged laughter that forced its way between his lips and the gasoline that now littered his clothing, he was site to behold.

Even as the laughter rumbled unabashed from his chest, he knew it was another façade; another show for the imaginary audience in his complex play of life.

**Scene I, Act III**

_He is young, that much he recognizes. The rest of the image is blurry, faded, and crumpled; an old snapshot for the crowd's amusement. B is staring, sitting at a small round table that is painted blue. He can see the cracks in the tabletop and notices the wobble as he shifts in his tiny chair; fit for the child he is. _

_He is fixated on the tiny, almost miniscule ant that crawls across the aged table, a red that contrasts so beautifully with the light blue of the table. He stares and stares and stares, when suddenly, a dark loafer comes crashing down, squashing the ant, and its entire existence right before his eyes. _

_B's father glares at him with unsuppressed anger, a scowl firmly placed upon his narrow face. His father lifts the shoe and with the same malice, whacks in hard against B's left cheek._

_B discovers pain. _

**End Scene**

The scene fades and the spectators roar with laughter. B closes his eyes as that familiar demon, _shame_, floods through him. B wonders if in death, your shame follows; nags with its uncertainty and its fear for all of eternity. But the more he ponders, the more sure he becomes that shame is too human for the likes of Hell, where he will soon take residency he is sure.

The next act starts and he stands, center stage, and he can't help but cry. For this memory, this memory was surely the start of something awful; his downfall from what little grace he had and his first meeting with shame.

**Scene II, Act I**

_B arrives at Whammy's in shabby clothes; the only remains of his abusive childhood. The rags he wears smell awful; a slight smell of blood, the mixture of whiskey and smoke, and the unmistakable stench of shit. _

_He feels the shame overwhelming him as he is greeted to a few of his classmates; the suffocating tightening his chest and the nauseas feeling as his intestines are twisted with embarrassment. He can't escape their all too cheery smiles and their pristine look gave him a feeling of worthlessness. They were all better than him at something; better looking, smarter, better ideas, better talents, and downright brilliant. _

_B discovers shame. _

**End scene.**

And though the clairvoyant grins of his housemates would've fooled almost anyone, he knew without a doubt that he would be the last one to laugh, the last one to smile that fake smile; no puppet master pulling his strings any longer. He can feel his heart give a jolting thump; reminding him of what he so desperately wanted.

With his strings cut, this puppet was just flailing, trying to keep himself from falling; holding to the edge of the mountain called love, even though he knew it was too late. The edge had crumbled long ago, letting him fall around the rubble and dirt.

He could finally see the ground rushing up to meet his face; he felt something plunge deep within his chest. Beneath him, L was standing, arms outstretched as if to hold him not to kill him. L twisted the knife, piercing B's heart with clinical, precise movements.

The last scene dissipates, circling an invisible drain as it swirls out of view. The spectators' humor rises to unimaginable level; echoing in his head as the last bit of self worth he had left evaporated.

He felt the unbearable pain in his chest, the squeezing of what little of his heart was left. The last significant memory appeared, the throng of people in plush chairs waited in anticipation; the second to last act was finally here.

**Scene IV, Act II**

_The scene is clear, colorful and abstract; filled with pure anguish. B is standing, much older than the last time, almost fifteen now, hair a stark black, skin a pale ivory, eyes a cool grey. He is skinny, to the point of being gangly, and he slouches. But all this, as everything before and after this event, is an act. He is playing a part; a part that he knew was a horrible imitation of the real thing. _

_He is hovering outside the small office, listening as the voices inside discuss him. It can only be him they speak of. He hears much, a few _'He is disturbed' _and more than a couple, _'He isn't meeting standards'. _H_

_But those things, those things meant nothing. They were said by people who knew nothing about him, people who saw him as a letter, the B that seemed to be branded on his forehead. It is when he hears the soft, monotone that echoes off the high ceilings, that he feels the tearing. His heart is being ripped apart, torn to pieces by two simple words,_ 'Discard him.'

_He feels the burning, feels the shame creeping into his stomach, but most of all he feels the breaking; the cracking of what was so fragile to begin with. L, with two meaningless fucking words has destroyed his entire being. And what was once obsession, an obsession that turned so quickly to fascination and love, turned to loathing._

_B discovers hate. _

**End scene**

This memory, this piece of his soul, lingers; taunting him, laughing at his pain, much like the throng of people, his personal audience, were. He feels the tears rolling down his pale face, feels the shame of knowledge build in his gut, feel the twist of the knife.

He cackled, putting on the best show as the last act was beginning. He flicked the lighter open, stared longingly at the flame, and touched it to his white shirt. The crowd grew wild with applause and B's laughter struggled to match its high volume.

He didn't hear his own screaming, didn't feel the flames licking his skin, and didn't smell his burning flesh. All he could feel was his shame melting; disappearing as if had never tainted his mind. His shame, as well as his existence and L's perfect record, was being reduced to ashes. Not even the knowledge of that made him smile.

_Last scene, last act, curtains fall; the crowd disappears._


End file.
